Chapter 6
The morning light filtered weakly through the narrow vertical blinds of the hospital room, casting pale stripes across the foot of Lily’s bed. Twenty-four hours had passed since the accident, and while the child’s intracranial pressure had stabilized, she remained in a deep, chemically assisted sleep to allow her brain tissue to heal without interference. Clara sat in the same chair she had occupied the night before, her hair now completely loose around her shoulders, wearing a borrowed oversized cardigan over her ruined wedding dress.
The door clicked open softly, and Julian stepped inside, holding two cardboard cups of coffee. He offered one to Clara, but she shook her head without looking up.
“You need to eat something, Clara,” Julian said, his voice strained with exhaustion. “You haven’t slept, and you’ve barely touched water since yesterday afternoon.”
“I can’t eat, Julian,” she replied evenly, her voice devoid of inflection. “Every time I close my eyes, I see that sign falling. I see Lily on the grass. And then I think about Marcus.”
Julian stopped, the coffee cups trembling slightly in his hands. He set them down on the small bedside table with a dull thud. “Marcus feels terrible about this. He’s beside himself.”
“He should feel terrible,” Clara said, turning her dark eyes toward her fiancé. “He cut corners. He used zip ties instead of steel bolts because he didn’t want to walk back to the truck to get the right hardware. I heard him arguing with the best man about it the morning of the wedding. I told him it looked flimsy. And you told me to let it go, that Marcus knew what he was doing.”
Julian stepped back, his expression hardening defensively. “I didn’t know he used zip ties. None of us did. It was an accident, Clara. A terrible, freak accident. You’re looking for someone to crucify because you’re terrified.”
“I’m looking at the truth,” Clara countered, her voice rising slightly before she caught herself, glancing at the steady line on the heart monitor. “And the truth is, your family’s carelessness nearly killed a seven-year-old child who has no one else in the world. My parents are flying in from London right now, and I have to look them in the eye and tell them that their niece is lying in an ICU bed because your brother wanted to save twenty minutes of labor.”
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Before Julian could respond, a soft knock sounded at the open door. Detective Miller stood in the doorway, his trench coat over his arm, holding a clear plastic evidence bag containing a frayed piece of heavy-duty nylon zip tie and a sheared metal screw.
“Good morning,” Miller said quietly, stepping into the room. “Ms. Vance, Mr. Davis. I need to ask you a few more questions about the setup of the venue decor.”
